Duck was standing in the operating room, absolutely stunned. The white walls and the light were blinding, and the dreadful mix of the bleach's and blood's smells made him nauseous. Also, the decapitated body on the operating table was not helping.
"Hello, Detective Duck! How are you doing on this fine morning?" Little Helper exclaimed with too much enthusiasm for someone who was on a gruesome crime scene at 6 in the morning.
"I'm doing great, thank you. So, what happened to this poor pal?" Duck grumbled.
He approached slowly the operating table. A big man was lying, cut wide open, on a blood-soaked blue paper sheet. His eyes were still open and glassy, his mouth twisted on a painful rictus. The cold light made him look like a ghost.
"It's a weird case, this one! Suicide, murder, both… Who knows?" Little Helper exclaimed.
"Why the hesitation? Looks like a murder to me. What kind of man kills himself by gutting himself? Sounds terribly fastidious, doesn't it?"
"See his right hand? Scalpel. Left hand?"
Duck bent over the body to take a closer look at the left hand, lying next to him. In it was a heart, still half attached to the man's chest. Duck backed off quickly.
"Okay. How do you even take your own heart out? I mean, once you cut the thing, you're dead, right?"
Little Helper nodded.
"Well, judging by the fact that the heart isn't entirely cut off, I guess he didn't get the time to finish."
"Right. And did you ID him?"
The assistant sighed.
"No, not yet. Surprisingly enough, nobody seems to know him in the hospital. The nurse who discovered the body swore she never saw him in her life. She was pretty freaked out though."
"And did Gearloose take a look?"
"Not yet. He shouldn't be long though. Do you want me to call him?"
Duck shook his head and walked to the supply table next to the bed the victim was lying on.
"No, don't worry. Just tell him to send me his rapport to my office. Also, take the prints off this thing," he pointed at the tools, "we want to know if he was alone. And tell me if anything seems… strange. Okay?"
"Yes Sir. No problem."
Duck rushed out of the white room, looking for some much-needed fresh air.
Once he was in the corridor, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and thought about the scene. He wondered if it could be linked, somehow, to his uncle's current case. It sure looked like it. And it was a shame, because it meant they would be collaborating again, and last time was quite… hectic. He exhaled deeply.
"Mister? Do you need help?"
Duck opened his eyes to face the most beautiful nurse he had ever seen. Long blond hair, gathered in a ponytail, beautiful red lips, … She looked like a movie star, even in the bad lightings of the old hospital. She was frowning, scanning him with her gorgeous brown eyes.
"Don't worry miss, I'm fine! Just a bit, eh, uneasy because of the dreadful scene in this room." He straightened and pointed at the door behind him. "Don't go in there if you're sensitive, miss, you would regret it!" he joked.
The nurse smiled, visibly reassured by his answer, and sighed. "I know, Detective, I'm the one who discovered the body of this poor, poor man! Oh, it was horrible! The smell, the blood… A true horror show indeed! So, I'm guessing you're the detective working on this case… Any clue of what happened to him yet?"
She didn't seem that bothered by the gruesome view, but Duck wasn't surprised. She was a nurse, gruesome views were part of her ordinary, no doubt.
"Apparently he cut off his own heart. Quite impressive if you ask me. My assistant told me that you've never seen him before?"
The girl shook her head. "No, never. But it's a hospital. Getting in is easy."
"True. Tracing him is gonna be tough. Miss, what's your name?"
"Margaret Grimm"
"Alright, Miss Grimm, would you be a doll and help me gather the people that were here tonight? I'm gonna need as many witnesses as I can."
"No problem, Detective! That will be my pleasure."
She winked and promptly left his sight.
Duck smiled. She was pretty. Maybe after he solves this one, he could buy her a drink.
"Detective Duck?" Daisy knocked softly on his already opened door.
Donald raised his head from his hands.
"Ah, yes, sorry Miss Daisy. Didn't hear you coming. How are you doing?" he smiled.
"Fine, thanks. Gyro asked me to give you the rapport on the guy at the hospital. There you go."
As he took the paper from her, their hands touched, and he could see her blushing. She was so sweet and beautiful…
Duck shook his head. He had a murder on his hands. He had to focus on it. He thanked her quickly and sat back behind his desk, pretending to read until she left. She kept fumbling through her papers, then made an attempt at a conversation. She went back to her desk in silence
When she was finally out of sight, he sighed, got up and closed the wooden door so hard the walls creaked a little. This damn police station was going to fall apart on their heads one of these days, he wouldn't be surprised. He sat on the dirty yellow floor. He was so stressed out lately he hadn't slept in three days, which only made the focusing more difficult.
After a few minutes, Duck got up again and took the rapport he left on his desk. He read it through, slowly, several times. He was reading it for the third time when somebody knocked on his door.
"Yes?"
The door creaked open, and Daisy's head passed through.
"Hello again, Detective." She noticed him sitting on the floor. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, Miss Daisy, everything is fine." He got up. "What can I do for you?"
"Gyro would want you to go see him in his office. He says he wants to have your opinion on this case, but he is very busy and can't come to you." She leaned in and whispered. "I think he's just lazy sometimes."
They laughed.
"You might be right, Miss Daisy, but nonetheless, he's a genius. So, I will move my butt to him if he desires." Duck joked.
He held the door for Daisy, got out and locked it behind him. He went on to grab a cup of coffee in the musty corridor before heading to Gearloose's lab.
He knocked on his door and Little Helper came to open, always so enthusiastic. Duck sincerely hoped his joy wouldn't get damaged by this job.
"Oh hello Detective Duck! How are you doing?"
"I'm good. Why did you want me to come here?" Duck asked as he entered his forensics' Ali Baba cavern. The lab was such a mess you had to watch every step you took in there. Only Little Helper could jump from place to place without crushing any test tube or important piece of evidence. From behind a pile of papers and books, Gyro answered his question.
"Ah, Duck! Yes. So, I performed the autopsy on the hospital victim. Quite an interesting one, I must admit."
Gearloose finally appeared, giant goggles on his eyes and always a stern face.
"Interesting how? Did you find any more clues?"
"I can tell you what he ate the day before his death, but it won't be very helpful. As I said in my rapport, I think he was a doctor. He knew how to manipulate a scalpel. The cuts are clean, precise. But they must be his own work because you can observe regular pauses as he was cutting, probably due to the pain."
"If he was a doctor, he was not from this hospital. The nurse said she never met him before."
"Perhaps he didn't want to be recognized. We still haven't ID'd him. No witnesses, the prints are not in our database… A ghost."
Duck considered the possibility. But why would a doctor kill himself in such a painful manner, unknown and alone? This could not just be a dramatic suicide. Drama needs an audience and being unrecognizable wouldn't give him that.
"Alright I'm gonna ask everybody to keep an eye on the missing person, see if anybody's looking for him. Anything else?"
"Actually, yes. There is something I didn't put in my rapport. Little Helper found something at the crime scene, and he thought you should see it."
Little Helper suddenly appeared in front of the detective, startling him.
"You asked me to look for anything unusual, so I did! And look what I found!"
The young man was proudly agitating a plastic evidence bag, with what looked like a red apple in it. Intrigued, Duck took the bag from him to examine the fruit. It was round, almost perfect, as red as blood, except for the two white letters engraved on it. 'S.W'. He frowned.
"'S.W'? Seriously? Oh, God in heaven, help me." He whined.
Gyro chuckled. "I felt you wouldn't be too enthusiastic about it. Sorry, mate."
Little Helper was still standing between them, throwing questioning looks at them.
"I'm gonna have to work with my uncle again?" Duck sighed. "Will the agony ever stop?"
Scrooge was at the entrance of the bar, still hesitating. The Beagle Boys just got out of jail, where he put them himself several times in the last few years. Entering their territory like that was a dangerous bet.
It was pouring rain outside. Reminded him of Scotland.
'Bar' was a big word for the establishment he was facing. It was more of a tavern, medieval-like. The walls were made of a grey stone, crippled of holes and cracks, threatening to crumble and collapse at every second. The inside was probably oozing with rain. Not good for my rheumatisms, he thought. But that wasn't a good enough reason to make him stop.
He pushed the heavy, wooden door and entered. As soon as he was in, the bar got quiet. The detective took a quick scan of the dark room in front of him and understood the sudden silence. Most of the faces in there were people he put in jail. On his left was a big counter, behind which Peg-Leg Pete, the owner, was washing glasses, indifferent to the change of mood. Dozens of bottles aligned on the wall behind him, as well as old pictures and papers' articles about all of his regulars. Peg-Leg Pete was a huge man, well-known of the police because of all the information he got, even though he never got involved in any dirty stuff himself, or at least, not to their knowledge. Scrooge had worked with him before, and knew how useful he could be if the money envelope was thick enough.
The rest of the room were rotten tables, creaking chairs and notorious criminals drinking beer and bourbon under the yellow light of the dusty luminaires. At the other end of the room were stairs going down. Scrooge knew he had to get down these stairs, but he also knew he had to deserve it.
He approached the bar slowly and sat with difficulty on one of the metal stools. It was high for him and he winced as he used his wounded arm to get himself up. The ceiling was so low his hat almost hit one of the lights.
"Well then, old man, what can I getcha?" Peg-Leg Pete asked. There was no apparent hostility in his voice, and the detective let an internal sigh of relief. He might act like nothing was wrong and he belonged here, but he was aware that everybody in this shabby bar was armed and hated him.
"Scotch on the rocks, please."
The owner served him his drink and watched him take a sip. "I'm guessing you're not here to get a taste of my wonderful Pig's Nose Scotch, or for my pretty face. Whatcha're looking for, Scrooge?"
He searched for an answer that wouldn't turn him into a sieve, swirling the bourbon in his glass.
"I need to meet with the Boys. I think they might be able to help me with something."
Peg-Leg Pete chuckled. The room was still dreadfully silent, and the tension was now palpable.
"The Beagle Boys, you mean? Come on, they just got out of the joint, they can't be already back into trouble?"
The old man didn't answer. He just gave the bartender the big envelope he was keeping in the inside pocket of his coat and waited.
Peg-Leg Pete took the envelope, took the time to put it in the vault under his bar and got out from behind the counter. Another internal sigh of relief. The whole process took a good five minutes.
Finally, he followed Pete to the stairs, but before he could get down, somebody broke the silence.
"Pete, come on! Ye're not serious! A cop, in our fucking cave? Don't ye have any dignity left?"
"Sylvester, I encourage you to sit your ass back on that chair. I do whatever I want in my bar, and those who don't agree with that can either leave or… be left." The owner's tone was stern, and everyone knew that he was no to be messed with, period. Sylvester Shyster, a crooked lawyer Scrooge was familiar with, sat back down and shut up. Nobody else spoke up and the detective was ushered down the stairs to get some answers.
Duck entered the commissioner's office half-heartedly, holding the plastic bag with the apple in one hand and Gyro's report in the other. He sighed as he threw both on his superior's desk.
"Hey Duck, what's with the long face?" O' Hara asked him, intrigued.
He knew his man was tired these days, but he was rarely the one to fall into desperation.
"Just look at it."
The commissioner took the plastic bag, looking at the apple. His eyes widened when they fell on the white engraving of the two infamous initials.
"Oh your uncle is going to be happy. He has been stuck with this for a while now. Did you tell him yet?"
Duck shook his head. He hadn't seen his uncle in a while, and he knew his serial killer case had met several dead ends. The media were going crazy, imagining all kinds of plots, all more absurd than the others. Scrooge was under a lot of pressure, and the serial killer seemed to have stopped suddenly, letting him without any new clues. At least until now.
Because there was one thing quite interesting about his uncle's case: the killer always left a signature: the initials S.W. It was always subtle, always hidden, but still there.
Duck knew that meant his uncle and him would have to be working together again, and he knew his uncle would not be happy about it. But he wouldn't have the luxury of a choice anyway.
O'Hara sighed, bringing Duck back to reality.
"Well go to Daisy and ask her the reports of the previous murders, look for any common points. We'll inform Scrooge when he'll come back."
"Where is he?"
His superior shrugged.
"You know him. He has his ways, and I don't want to hear about it, as long as he gets results somehow."
Duck nodded. His uncle was probably consulting all of his sources, even the shadiest ones. He understood, it was a method that was proven successful, even though public opinion was not fond of it. He just hoped he wouldn't put himself in any type of unnecessary danger.
Fast forward to the unnecessary danger. The door slammed behind him and silence fell. Scrooge was in a basement, damp and dark, even worse than the bar. He shuddered, more of cold than fear. One single round table was sitting in the center of the room, eight chairs around it. A pool table was standing in a corner, dust covering it. Lamps throwing a yellow light were hanging on the walls.
The seven Beagle Boys brothers were sitting at the table, cards in their hands, full glasses next to them. They were all glaring at Scrooge. He understood their hostility: he was the reason they were very familiar with prison cells.
Peg-Leg Pete approached the table and went to whisper something in the eldest's ear. At his words, Bigtime Beagle, the leader, exploded in a cold laughter that made the walls of the cave tremble, which did not reassure Scrooge.
"Scrooge! You would need our help? And where were you when we needed yours to get out of the joint, uh? We asked you nicely!" he exclaimed.
His brothers were chuckling lightly.
"Come on, Bigtime. This ain't about me, alright? People are getting killed, and I know you know something about it. It would sure help you in the future to give clues in an investigation of this importance you know?"
"Oh right! The serial killer case! Is this the one, Scrooge? Oh my, you're in a dead end with this one ey?"
Scrooge felt angry. These guys were straight-up criminals, and he didn't want to help them in any way. He was a cop, for Christ' sake. He shouldn't be here, sitting and bargaining with them. And yet, here he was.
"I have something that might interest you very much, Bigtime."
The largest of the seven brothers, Bankjob, exploded in laughter.
"This cop still thinks he can offer us anything? Who d'you think you are, ol'man? Nothing is of interest for us anymore. We've gone to the joint too much! And it's because of YOU!" he yelled.
The old detective felt bad about his answer, but he had to: "Really? Nothing? Not even your old Ma, Bankjob?"
He looked at him with piercing eyes through his dirty round glasses, and Bankjob sat back on his chair, silenced. Bouncer, the third in command, coughed.
"What d'you mean, Ma? Can you get her out of jail?"
His accent was somehow thicker than the others, and his voice was deeper. Why he was only third in command, Scrooge never understood. He was the scariest of them all, the maddest, the most dangerous.
"I can put a very good word to the job. I heard her sentence had been reduced for good behavior already. A word from the detective who put her there could be the only thing missing for her release." Scrooge stated.
His voice sounded firm. He wasn't. He had no idea if any word from him would do any good for their Ma. And if he couldn't keep his promises to the Beagle Boys… Nothing good would come out of this.
But they seemed to buy it. They asked him to get back upstairs and wait for their decision. This didn't please Scrooge, especially since the atmosphere upstairs was so hostile, but also because his time was up. He couldn't argue more with them. This was his last chance. If he didn't get any information out of them it would be bad.
After an hour of anxious waiting and lots of whiskey drinking, Scrooge got called back to the basement. He sat back at the round table and the seven brothers stared intensely at him. Bigtime spoke first:
"We accept your deal. We help you out with your case, you get Ma out of jail. If you fail, we'll make your life even more miserable than it already is. Are we clear, Scrooge?"
The detective simply nodded and shook the hand Bigtime offered him.
"Now, what do you know about my serial killer case?"
Bouncer got up and went to a chest in a dark corner of the basement. He took a piece of paper out of it and came back to the table. He handed the paper to Scrooge, who took it and examined it closely. It was a picture, faded and dirty. On it was a beautiful woman, with dark hair, thin silhouette, red lips and a scar on the shoulder. Around her were seven men, all looking more dangerous than the others. Scars, weapons, mischievous grins, they were criminals alright. But Scrooge didn't know them from some criminal record. He recognized their faces from the crime scenes he was investigating. Some of these men were his victims.
"Who's this?" he asked coldly.
"The Unlawful Seven, we called them. Incredible robbers. The best, even, thanks to their gorgeous leader. You might recognize her name, or, should I say, her initials…" Bouncer took the picture and turned it around, showing Scrooge a few names scribbled on the back.
Snow White and the Unlawful Seven
Snow-White. S.W. The initials Scrooge found on each crime scene. She was his serial killer. And she was killing her partners in crime.